


Hungry

by rufeepeach



Category: Community
Genre: F/M, Horror AU, Horror Fiction in Seven Spooky Steps, Vampire!Jeff, Werewolf!Annie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 20:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geoff and Anna have crossed paths several times in their long, long lives. A smutty sequel to Annie’s story in the Halloween episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bodice Ripper - England 1687

He can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine when he sees her.

She stands out in the night of the forest, gliding like some kind of sociopathic angel in her white dress, the bloodstains black in the moonlight.

She’s smiling, serenely, her eyes closed, but he knows she can see him. She probably caught his scent miles back, and it was only his knowledge of the woods that allowed him to run as long as he did.

So now he lounges against the barn wall, as if he’s waiting for her, as if she’s late for some appointment. The prey awaiting the hunter; he snorts softly at how poetic that sounds.

She’d be proud of that, he thinks, as she finally meets his eyes. After all, it was she who taught him poetry and literature all those years ago. Back when he thought himself the hunter, and her the most delicious meal he’d ever encountered.

Now she’s stood before him, her smile wide and innocent. A sweet, young schoolteacher out for a walk in the woods, and she’s still the scariest thing for a hundred miles.

Her hands rest on her hips, “Why did you run, Geoff?”

“Because the woods are becoming cliche.” Anna’s eyes are bright, merry, and hungry. Hungry for what, he can only guess.

“Hmmm, I suppose…” she’s so close now, high heeled boots giving her the height she needs to reach his shoulder and higher, her breath hot on his ear as she purrs, “The hunt, the chase, the capture.”

He shudders, feeling himself grow instantly hard. It’s sick, the way he wants her. The way he always seems to want her, whenever she’s around. After all, when they met, he planned to eat her alive. She nearly killed him, the first time she left. She kept him alive for reasons he’s never managed to draw out of her.

She has him pressed against the barn wall now, hand cupping his hardness, lips trailing a scorching line down his neck.

She could bite down, sink her teeth into his jugular and drink her fill. She could be satisfied for weeks on his blood alone: vampire meat was so much more sustaining than human. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she brings his hands around to the back of her bodice, and together they wrench through the ribbons and silk like tissue paper. He throws it to the floor, and stares down at her, eyes wild.

She smiles again, lips wide and inviting, and he sinks to his knees, pulling apart the material in one long tear, until it fell apart around her feet, arranged around the iron hoop that kept it wide. He’d expected petticoats, and is a little taken aback by the lack thereof.

Instead, he’s greeted by the sight of Anna clad only in some silk stockings and a smile.

Their lips crush together, the weight of a decade apart coming in full force as he rocks into her, hands reaching to cup her bare breasts, pale and stark in the moonlight. She cries out as he rubs between her legs, a startlingly human sound, and he’s reminded of the innocence she once portrayed. He wonders absently what it might have been like, making love to the innocent schoolteacher who taught him to read. He wonders if that might have been better, sweeter, than hot, angry sex between two hateful monsters.

But then her nails are scraping up his back, her teeth nipping hard at his jaw, and his mind goes to a dark, hungry place. Her clever little fingers reach down and unbutton the flap on his breeches. He springs free, and he groans in pleasure at the cool night air on his cock.

Then they’re spun around, her back braced against the wall, and his hands grip her hips. He spears up into her, impaling her on his cock, and she screams out. She’s scorching around him, tight as a virgin, and it’s like nothing else in the world.

He bites down on her neck, her skin too thick to draw blood, and she returns the favor. When he pulls away and looks at her, his fangs are out in full. Her eyes were yellow, her ears and teeth sharp and pointed.

He pounds into her, setting up a violent rhythm no human could endure, and it becomes what it always is, a competition to see who can hurt the other most. She bites his neck and shoulders as his fingers score lines into her hips, smashing her spine into the hard wood behind them.

Their mouths meet in the middle, a mesh of tongues and lips and teeth. He cuts his tongue on her canines; her lips bleed where he bit down, hard.

They come together, a discordant mix of vampire scream and werewolf howl.

They breathe hard for a moment, as he pulls out of her. They open their eyes and he’s sure he glimpses the hint of a genuine, tender smile on her lips.

Then she steps away, and morphs fully into her other form. A chocolate-brown wolf, the same colour as her hair, with those eery yellow eyes stares at him, and as always he feels a stab of fear.

One day, she’ll kill him for real.


	2. Bodice Ripper - England 1687

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoff and Anna have crossed paths several times in their long, long lives. A smutty sequel to Annie’s story in the Halloween episode

He’s not there to hunt. Really. No one, of course, knowing what he was, would believe that: he’s not even sure that he does. But he’s not there to hunt, despite the mass of beautiful, masked women flitting about, just begging to be dragged into a dark corner and devoured.

He’s only there to hide – not from a predator, on his tail through the city, stalking him in the shadows. No: for the first time in his long, long, un-life, he’s hiding from a _feeling_.

He’s a soulless monster, and he’s owned that identity for a century now. He felt echoes of emotion, not the real thing, and the nastier the feeling the stronger it felt. Lust, rage, hunger, those were his strong points. He could lose himself in those, and frequently did. But the guilt, the nagging grief, the whispering sense of loss snarling and twisting in his stomach begged to differ.

Bridget, his blood-whore for over twenty years, was dead. Ironically, for a girl perpetually on the verge of death, she died of natural causes: a sweating sickness that killed her in days.  
  
So he decided to get drunk out of his skill, someplace she always wanted to visit but never did. He came to Venice to toast her name.

He wishes he didn’t see her a little bit everywhere: a girl in the corner, with curly blonde hair, another whose skin was the same shade of alabaster-pale. He’s not a human man who lost a wife or a lover: he’s not a wondering, lost wreck of a being. He’s a vampire who kept his blood-whore alive far longer than he should have, and is paying the price.

 _This is why it’s always a bad idea to play with your food._ He thinks, bitterly, downing a whole glass of red wine in a few seconds.

“Would you care for a dance?” A girl bats her eyelashes at him behind a shiny black and gold mask. They’re wide, brown, innocent and somehow familiar.

It is that sense of nagging familiarity that makes him say ‘yes’. After all, who’s to say that all the wine hadn’t gone to his head, making him forget whatever part of Bridget this sweet girl must remind him of?

She giggles, girlishly, and leads him out onto the dance-floor, and he wonders whether it’s the coldness of her hand that reminds him of Bridget. Perhaps this girl is someone else’s blood-whore, he muses, although he can see no obvious bite marks.

He spins her in a waltz around the room, glad that none of the more formal, courtly dances are in play. In his current state, remembering a group dance or keeping his eye on his partner would be impossible.

Thankfully, she doesn’t try to hold a conversation. She simply casts him occasional coy, appreciative glances and smiles widely, as if she’s won a prize no other girl did, and is happy to flaunt it.

She doesn’t try to argue, or start some discussion of literature or music, which Bridget always did. After a while, he’d learnt that her blood was always warmest and tastiest when she was angry, engaged in debate, and so had indulged her. It is both a welcome change and a disappointment that his dance partner is so pliant, willing and submissive.

Then again, she has all the qualities of a really good meal, right there. It’s the guilt, the grief, making her a little irritating. _Any other night…_

When the dance finishes, she takes his hand and smiles up at him, almost pleadingly. Her cheeks are flushed from the dance, her eyes bright. In that moment, the hunter takes over inside him, and his own smile, predatory and smouldering, comes out in force.

She gasps, shocked but not at all displeased, and trots long beside him as he leads her out onto a balcony, where they’re alone with the view of the Venetian Grand Canal.

“Sire, I don’t even know your name.” She stands with her back to him, hands on the railing, gazing out over the water. He can follow a sparkling trail, from the edge of her ornate mask, down diamond earrings to a long, golden pendant, down the side of her perfect neck.

As if she’s wearing a giant sign reading ‘bite me’, and all he has to do is say yes.

So he walks up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, “Geoff.” He introduces himself as his lips meet her neck.

He feels her sigh as his arms tighten around her delicate form. He’s fulfilling every silly little romantic dream she’s ever had, and he loves that it’ll be the last thing she ever feels.

He can’t see her face, not even as he gazes down at her with her head against his chest, behind that mask. But as he breathes in the scent of her hair, that nagging familiarity grows, with an accompanying sense of dread.

“Well, Geoff, what brings you to Venice?” her breath is a little uneven as he continues to kiss his way down her neckline, moving the top of her dress aside to nibble her shoulder with his human teeth.

“Who could miss the Carnival? All those beautiful things to see, to feel…” he wants her to shut up now, and hopes that doubling his attentions will help.

“Yes…” she breathes, “The culture is,” he hears her breath hitch, “breath-taking. I knew the children needed to see it…”

He doesn’t understand why his fight-or-flight response is stirred by that, but attributes it to how good she looks in the moonlight, to how much he suddenly wants to take her, right there, and sink his teeth into her flesh right as she comes.

The fantasy suddenly alive in his mind sends cold, dead blood rushing down to his member, which stirs and hardens. He’s grinding into her now, and he hears her whimper a little.

“Oh?” Now conversation is good – he needs her to be stupid, insipid and bland, to be a meal once again and not a woman.

“I am a schoolteacher, and many children rely upon me…” her voice has risen in pitch, to be almost mockingly girlish and innocent. She stills in his arms, as every hair on his body stands on end. He can’t move as she giggles, all trace of vapid virtue lost from her tone.

His fangs come out, and he’s biting down before he even realises it. But, of course, his fangs won’t penetrate the skin, and all he receives is another mocking laugh. “You fall for it every single time, don’t you?”

“What could you possibly be doing here?” he growls, anger and fear warring in his mind.

“Who could miss the Carnival?” she asks, sweetly. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, and after a moment she stops laughing and turns in his arms, frowning up at him, “What’s the matter? You’re not pleased to see me?”

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“We haven’t seen each other since that time in London, as I recall, and that was almost five years ago. You’re hardly an obsession of mine, Geoff.”

He lets go of her, finally, and stands back, “Just leave.”

She laughs, again, but this time in disbelief, “I’m sorry?”

“Good, so leave.”

“No.” She leans back, arms folded against the railing, and stares him down, “There is a whole city out there, masked and intoxicated, just waiting to be hunted down like prey. What could be more fun?”

“And you want to… share the fun with me?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not here to hunt. Leave.”

“Not five minutes ago you were about to devour me, so don’t tell me you’re not starving. When was the last time you fed?”

A shadow passes over his face, an expression he can’t name or contain, and she catches it with some confusion. The last time had been on Bridget’s deathbed, when she made him promise to drain her, so she wouldn’t go to waste. The blood had been cold, tasteless, as wasted with disease as the rest of her, and he still doesn’t know if it was her final gift or punishment to him.

“What happened to you, Geoff? Where did you go?”

“Bridget’s dead.” He says it without emotion, which is easy enough. He supposes it isn’t really grief he’s feeling at all, but loneliness. Monsters don’t have long-lived companions, after all.

“Who?” realisation dawns on Anna’s face, “Oh, the skanky concubine?”

Geoff is right up in her face in an instant, looming down over her smaller form, anger overruling all sense of self-preservation. Quietly, he hisses, “Show some respect, bitch.”

“Why?” she’s genuinely confused, “She was a weakling, Geoff, a mortal who needed the bite but couldn’t be turned. I’m surprised you care so much.”

“And you called me selfish.”

“You are – I gave my time to you, I tried to make you a better man, and you rewarded me by trying to kill me. She just lay back and let you have your way with her –”

“Shut up.” He’s hard again, with the desire to rip into her, to take out whatever horrible thing he’s feeling on someone who can take it, who can give it right back. He’s never felt like such a monster. “You don’t know a thing.”

“You didn’t respect her, you kept her in a cupboard if I recall. So why do I have to lie, now that she’s gone?”

He doesn’t have an answer to that, so he slams his hands down on the rails on either side of her, and proceeds to slaughter her mouth, taking all the control and biting hard on her lips, thrusting his tongue into her and denying her any chance to reciprocate. He draws a whimper from her, and swallows it down.

He pulls away, seeing the lust in her eyes, and keeps her pressed against the railing as he works his hand under her skirts, glad to see that – as usual – she has eschewed the traditional petticoats and undergarments, allowing easier access. He assumes, absently, that hunting in full ladies’ formal wear must be horribly inconvenient.

He rubs hard between her legs, using his other hand to trap both of hers against her chest, and finds her wet and ready for him: fighting always turns both of them on like nothing else.

“Yesss…”

He growls at her, and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, slim silver knife. He’s carried it since London, since she essentially claimed to be his latest victim and provided an angry mob with stakes and crosses to hunt him down, just to ‘keep him on his toes’. He’d forgotten he had it, but now it’s time for payback.

“Say one more word and I’ll use this.” She eyes the knife warily, the only trace of fear he’s ever seen on her face present now. She stays quiet, and he slips the knife back into his pocket.

He reaches down to unbutton his breeches, and pulls her skirts up around her hips, aligning them. She looks as if she’s about to say something, and he raises his eyebrows, moving his hand back toward the knife.

He encourages her to wrap her legs around his waist, and his hand instead grabs one of hers. Now holding both wrists in his hands, he pins her against the rails, and thrusts deep inside her. She moans, loudly, and he hisses into her ear, “One more sound, just one, and I’ll leave you here alone with a silver knife in your back.”

She shivers, and stays silent as he takes her, hard, against the balcony. Her eyes flutter shut, her mouth hangs open in a silent scream, and he bites down on her earlobe as he continues, “You disapproved of her, sneered every time you saw her when you stayed with me. You made her watch as you ripped me to shreds.” He punctuates each sentence with a roll of his hips, another thrust harder and deeper inside her.

She’s always so tight around him, so hot and wet and wild that he always – solo or with some random soon-to-be-meal – thinks about her when he comes. He supposes, in a sick, undead kind of a way, that she’s the love of his life.

He thrusts into her again, hitting the spot that sends her reeling, “So take it, bitch. Take it all.”

She trembles around him, squeezing his cock like a vice as she comes, and he watches as she tries not to howl, as her eyes turn to yellow behind her mask. He reaches behind her head, releasing her hands, and unties the ribbons behind her head.

She really is beautiful, as she writhes against him, lit up in the carnival lanterns and moonlight. The sight of her full face, bare for the first time that evening in the grips of her orgasm, triggers his own. He groans hard into her neck as his thrusts become erratic, as his fingers grip hard into her skin, as he releases all the pain he’s been carrying but unable to feel.

In an uncharacteristically affectionate gesture, he feels her reach up and stroke the back of his head as he collapses against him. He wonders how much of her monstrous behaviour, her cruelty, is genuine, and how much of her is still that innocent schoolteacher who was willing to tutor him.

He’s never once seen her kill an innocent in cold blood. And that realisation stuns him as he looks up at her with fresh eyes.

But she’s put her mask back on, and all he sees is hard, dark, lacquered wood. Her eyes meet his for just a second, before her smile returns and she takes his hand. “Lets reek some havoc.”


End file.
